


Depressingly Surreal

by ko_drabbles



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [1]
Category: Ouran High School Host Club - All Media Types
Genre: Amputation, Amputation Kink, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Attempted Sexual Assault, Blood, Force-Feeding, Humiliation, Kidnapping, M/M, Teeth, Tooth Trauma, Torture, Unhygienic, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-07-06 00:49:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15875120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ko_drabbles/pseuds/ko_drabbles
Summary: There was something so depressingly surreal about a dark room with no windows, Kyoya had come to realise.





	1. Force Feeding

There was something so depressingly surreal about a dark room with no windows, Kyoya had come to realise. It was impossible to judge the time, whether it was day or night, and his sleep pattern was so twisted he just slept whenever he was on the verge of passing out. The thought of being unaware with the man around… It made him so utterly uncomfortable that he just couldn’t even close his eyes for a minute.

Or… what might be a minute. He was really unsure at this point, everything either passing in a blur or dragging on for eons.

It might’ve been the cold concrete below him, as well. It was uncomfortable, and his skin was mottled with bruises from his hipbones, knees and elbows pressing into the hard surface. It certainly didn’t help that, when he’d said to the man that his clothes were sweated through and filthy, he’d only been given a clean shirt and his other clothes were taken away.

Which led up until now, dull eyes staring into the darkness, curled up on the ground in that too big shirt and his dirty underwear. He only curled up tighter when his stomach gave a loud, painful growl, shoulders shaking but not crying. He was just cold. He wasn’t scared, he never cried himself to sleep, and he wasn’t going to die. They’d find him.

… Right?

He couldn’t remember the last thing he’d eaten, not that he’d even know when that was anymore. He didn’t know what had happened for the man to grab him, but he remembered feeling very dizzy and just plain odd, and so he didn’t trust the food he was given. He felt like he was going to crack soon, but whenever the man would enter and give him his meagre portion of food, that uneasiness came back at full force, and he couldn’t even bring himself to even pick up the plate.

The door opened, Kyoya wincing as the light hit him square in the eye, tearing up a little from the brightness after being in the dark for so long. The man’s big, dark shadow loomed for a moment, before propping the door open, Kyoya’s mind reeling sluggishly through the possibilities of that.

He was exhausted and sore.

In the man’s hands was a bowl, as well as something else in his other hand that Kyoya couldn’t see. Maybe it had been long enough that the man was going to actually try talking him into eating? He wouldn’t, he couldn’t; even if the hunger was still something at the forefront of his mind, he couldn’t risk it. This wasn’t a gamble he was used to, like the host club; this was playing Russian Roulette, and he was trying to get out of his turn without playing.

The man knelt down next to him, rough hands hauling him up and pushing his arms behind his back, a zip tie fastened around his wrists while his head was still spinning from the motion. His eyes were locked on the door behind the man’s looming figure, hissing as a second zip tie was fastened around his thin ankles, the protruding bones knocking together painfully.

“C’mon, growing boys need to eat,” The man coaxed, Kyoya’s heart dropping at how lilting and cheerful that voice was, knowing that it could only mean bad things.

He clenched his jaw tightly, shaking his head. He glared at the man with all the menace a too-thin, lanky teenager with grease-slicked hair, wearing just an oversized shirt and underwear, possibly could. He wasn’t going to play this game, he didn’t want to feed into anything this sadistic sociopath wanted him to.

His resolve didn’t matter, however. The man grabbed his jaw hard enough to leave bruises, fingers forcing themselves into his mouth and managing to pull his teeth apart. That was when he knew what the mystery object the man had was. The hard block was shoved between his back teeth, preventing him from closing his mouth. He tried to spit it out, but he couldn’t get enough purchase on it to push it out of his mouth.

A distressed noise managed to make its way out, embarrassingly enough, and the man stroked the back of his hand down Kyoya’s face, smirking. “Shush, baby boy,” The man mockingly cooed, “Just relax. I know boys like you want to be pretty but starving yourself isn’t going to work. Or do you just want some attention? Well, you’re getting it now, don’t worry.”

The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, a shiver running through him. Somehow, after hearing that, he felt even colder. His mind flashed to his mother, the feeling of her false nails raking gently through his hair as she told him that he was her baby boy, so handsome and cute. It wasn’t like that now, it just made him feel nauseous, especially when he saw the man pick up the bowl.

The metal scraped against the china bowl all too harshly, and he wrinkled his nose at the thin looking substance he was obviously going to be fed. Rice porridge? That’s what it reminded him of, but it was lumpy and congealed in places, watery in others; like it had been made with curdled milk or something. It smelled repulsive, he knew that much; how badly can you fuck up porridge?

He tried to turn his head away, tried to resist, but the man stopped him all to easily. The spoon was pushed to the back of his throat, Kyoya spluttering as the man almost choked him with it. His neck twisted painfully as the man tilted his head up by yanking on his hair with one hand, rubbing his throat with the other. It was reminiscent of something Tamaki had done when Antionette needed antibiotics, only a lot rougher than the blond would ever be towards his beloved dog.

Kyoya was basically forced to swallow, the clumps of porridge falling heavily in his stomach, as if he was swallowing lead weights. It was different from the emptiness that had been there for… however long it had been. Uncomfortable, even, and not just because the whole thing was far too invasive. His teeth grinded hard on the block between his jaws, his mouth sore from the grip, and he just felt like his stomach was doing summersaults.

Several spoonfuls in, as well as some blinked back tears, the man obviously lost his patience with doing it the slow way. He tutted, fingers shoved into the back of his mouth, hooking around his molars and wrenching hard on Kyoya’s lower jaw to open his mouth further, the pain in his teeth almost unbearable as the rest of the disgusting porridge was poured unceremoniously into his mouth, and he had to swallow in order to avoid breathing the stuff in. It was hell on his throat, undercooked rice scraping against the sensitive skin, and the muscles doing more than they had in a while.

It was nothing like what he’d read about. It was like swallowing razorblades, and he could taste the blood flowing from his agonised teeth. He could feel hard, bone-like shards occasionally when he swallowed, which only stabbed into his abused oesophagus more. It hurt. It hurt so much, and he honestly just wanted this to end but the seconds dragged their feet, almost as if they were as tortured and exhausted as he felt.

He teared up, feeling himself gagging but just trying to swallow it down. He could feel the porridge spilling from the corners of his mouth, the oversized shirt suspiciously wet, but he managed to get the last of it down without puking everything up again, thank God. He didn’t want to do that in fear of another bowl being brought down, that mocking voice lilting once more.

His breathing was heavy when the man took the bowl away from his lips, arms and legs feeling weak and every fibre of him was shaking. Tears spilled down his cheeks as he coughed, feeling utterly powerless and humiliated. Blood ran down his chin, mixing with the disgusting porridge, from his now broken back teeth.

The light from the doorway illuminated the shattered fragments of enamel that he spat from his mouth all too clearly, but it didn’t seem like the man cared. Those calloused, bruising fingers ran through his hair, and everything tensed. He couldn’t even breath.

“There. That wasn’t so hard, was it baby boy?” The man chuckled, his footsteps fading and the room plunging back into total darkness once more. Kyoya just curled up once more, running his tongue along his sharp, broken, bloody teeth and crying. He didn’t know how long it was until the tears dried up and he fell into an uneasy sleep.

After all, there was something so depressingly surreal about a dark room with no windows.


	2. Water droplets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked for Kyoya being forced to beg.

Kyoya awoke to sore muscles and a hazy mind. The disgusting smell of the room had long since been shifted to the back of his mind, full of sweat and urine and faeces, but there was something sour now added to the mix. It wasn’t overpowering, his sense of smell having died a while ago now, but it was odd. He was too far away from himself, too disconnected, to really understand it, however.

At first, it seemed like what had happened had only been a dream. It wasn’t clear, like some terrible nightmare that ended up half forgotten when he woke up. However, the iron taste of blood in his mouth, and the pulsing pain in his broken teeth brought him back to reality pretty quickly. He groaned, pressing a hand to his cheek to find it slightly swollen from the traumatic forced feeding.

He let out a harsh breath, unsure of what he could even do in the dark, all alone. It was a race to keep his own sanity at this point, and the pain from his gut, his teeth, the bruises around his mouth… It wasn’t helping. There was the feeling of grime on his skin, something that made him want to claw at it until the tracks of filth gave way to red lines – clean but sore. He could feel clumps of cold rice and the watery trails of the porridge streaked down his chin and shirt, and he almost vomited from how sour the taste in his mouth was. It didn’t help that he’d been given no way to brush his teeth throughout his captivity, mouth fuzzy and near putrid as he caught a whiff of his own breath.

God, he wanted to be clean. To have a nice, hot shower, brush his teeth and hair, wrap up in a fluffy towel and fresh sheets. He wanted Tachibana to ruffle his hair, Hotta’s jokes and Aijima’s cooking lessons. He missed Yuuichi’s newspapers, his father hovering over his shoulder and telling him the answers to the crosswords as he was about to fill them in. God help him, he also missed Akito’s sarcastic remarks and their occasional rough-housing.

And then, there were the hosts. He missed every single one. He wanted to hear Kaoru’s voice… He wanted the music room, the smell of perfume, the sugary cakes and flowers hanging in the air. He missed _home_.

He hated how the choked sob he made seemed to echo around the darkness, the loudest thing there.

That was until the heavy door creaked open once again, rusty hinges screeching, and Kyoya flinched back. His shoulders curled, knees pressed to his forehead; curled up in a little ball as if it would keep him safe. He wasn’t safe, not at all; zip ties still around his ankles and wrists, his hopes of rescue dwindling dangerously low. He almost wished that the man’s next plan was to shoot him in the head, a quick and painless end; but he knew that he was far too sadistic for that. The man wanted to watch him decay, in pain as he slowly withered away, quietly petering out of existence. This was for his pleasure and nothing more; no ransom, no material benefit. He found rot and pain beautiful, enticing; and Kyoya was only to sweeten the deal with his wide, tearful eyes.

“Hello baby boy,” The man greeted, and Kyoya shuddered, swallowing down something sour that came to the back of his throat, “You really are dirty right now, aren’t you?”

Hands raked across his scalp, making tracks in his greasy hair and causing his breath to stick in his throat like those clumps of rice. He wanted them off of him, the touch revolting and just plain **bad**. He wanted to rip his stubby fingers away, replace them with Kaoru’s long, graceful ones. He wanted to hear praises and love whispered so softly against his skin, soothing touches and those that coaxed out his sweet, more pliant state. Kaoru would hold his wrists above his head as they lay together and say how cute he was with those flushed cheeks and kiss swollen lips. Not for a moment could he pretend the man was Kaoru, even if it could give his mind a brief moment of respite.

He could never do that, the feeling of peril too strong.

“I bet you’d like a shower,” The man cooed, Kyoya’s instant reaction being the slight widening of his eyes. If he were a dog, his ears would have perked up. He was conflicted, desperately wanting to be clean despite the instinctual and logical feeling that this was bound to have a price. He didn’t know how to react, what to say… Unease seized him around the chest and forced the air from his lungs.

“I…” He tried to begin, voice rough from disuse and thick from fear, “I would like… to…”

The lowlight cast a disturbing glow over the man’s grin, making it seem almost inhuman. Kyoya swallowed down his fear with blood-tainted, sour saliva, and looked him in the eye. It was, perhaps, too bold of a move, as the lights he didn’t even know existed came on with a painful intensity, the switch outside having been flicked. He gave a groan of pain, clenching his eyes shut and seeing the blotches of retina burns colouring the reddened darkness.

“Alright,” The man agreed, so casually that it made every instinct Kyoya had scream. He tried to blink his eyes open slowly, but only whimpered when he did. It was much too bright, and he couldn’t stand it; not after being in the dark for so long.

“Beg me.”

The command was so sudden that Kyoya barely processed this, managing to open his eyes even if it was painful. His mouth opened and closed a couple of times, not even knowing if he’d heard that correctly, unsure what to say. What _do_ you say to that? Tachibana tried to teach him everything he needed, but this? This whole situation was some sort of hideous nightmare, something that couldn’t have happened in real life.

“Please…” He began, voice unsure. He had come to terms with the fact that, due to his sheltered upbringing, he was something of a snob – not to mention naïve; begging wasn’t something he’d ever had to do. When he was little, he only needed to flutter his long eyelashes, and what he wanted was given to him on a silver platter; within reason, of course. Most of the time. But the point remained; he actually had no idea what to do, without the added humiliation of the act.

“I can’t hear you, baby boy,” The man teased, a song in his tone, and Kyoya almost hacked up the vile clumps of porridge he had managed to swallow.

His mouth opened and closed, rough voice scraping his vocal chords as he tried to pull himself together. His broken, fuzzy-feeling teeth didn’t clench together, they were too painful for that, but he closed his mouth for a moment, just to breathe. It’s not like he had much, if any, pride left now, the temptation of the shower too much to exercise more caution. He needed to be clean, he had to be clean.

“Please, may I have a shower?” His voice cracked once or twice, which he’d swear was due to disuse, but he thought it was alright. Despite how it made his skin crawl, he looked up at the man with large, puppyish eyes and batted those long, pretty lashes. Alluring. Doe-eyed and innocent. Not broken, but submissive; a more equal ground, not that it made the situation anywhere near tolerable.

“That’s a pretty face,” The man chuckled. His heel hooked over Kyoya’s shoulder before he could even react, the force of the man’s heavy boot bending his back, crushing him down to the floor. His face pressed against the dirty concrete, and he struggled to breathe. It wasn’t because of the boots, it was just the pure fear of what might happen.

“That’s better,” The man laughed, the thick sole of the boot pressing uncomfortably against his prominent shoulder blade, “Grovel. Toady. Make me feel good, pretty boy, if you want that shower.”

“Please… Please let me shower…” Kyoya began once more, voice too broken and too thick with unshed tears; the thought of it grated against his skull like nails on a chalk board. So, this was what the great Kyoya Ootori, the shadow king, was reduced to? Well, if it meant surviving – if it meant _clean_ – then he supposed he wasn’t really allowed to argue about it. He wanted more than this, gone were the days of fantasising over bridges and knives and pills. He was _happy_ , he _wanted_ to live. People _would_ find him.

… Right? It had already been so long…

“I really need a shower.” Each word was like a knife in his gut, only causing his intestines to writhe and rupture, blood filling his abdomen with a vivid black, “Please… Please let me…”

The pressure on his back lessened, and he cautiously raised his head to see the man’s eerily smiling face. This was either positive, or something very bad. It was like his nerves were stripped down completely, electrical pulses shocking his muscles painfully, tremors running along his shoulders, arms, and making his legs numb.

“Well, as you pleaded _so nicely_ ,” The man grinned, leaning over him like a stray dog hunched over some discarded piece of meat, and hoisted him up by the armpits. He tried valiantly to not kick out, to not yelp, but there’s only so much a teenager – hungry, sick, in pain, and scared out of their wits – can control the body’s automatic instincts.

He was placed back on the cold floor once more, blue toes now scrunching against the concrete, too long nails scrapping almost painfully. His breath was still quick, not getting enough oxygen with how shallow they were. He was tired, he wanted to be home.

The man kneeled down, undoing the zip tie around his ankles, acting as if he were some sort of prince charming offering Cinderella her shoe. Now he could see the vividly red, raw band that cut through his pale skin; though it wasn't bleeding, it looked all too close to that. Like it'd would start bleeding any second, blood sluggishly trailing down bruised ankles and his cold feet.

His wrists remained bound together, hands behind his back, as he was shoved roughly, told to walk along like a prisoner to the electric chair. He stumbled, muscles weak and atrophied, but still kept going. He wanted a shower so desperately, and he was outside of his dark, foul little cell. He could almost smell cut grass, even if the damp and mould in the corridor's walls overpowered it slightly. It was better than urine and excrement. He wasn't in his own filth for the time being, and he'd never thought that he'd be in a situation where even that basic right felt like luxury.

The man kept a hand on his lower back the whole time, occasionally slipping down to rub over his hip bones. It was something that was so inappropriately familiar, all too close to intimate, and he just bit his lip. He was going to be clean, he couldn't spoil that for himself, and wasn't that just depressing? It wasn't like his house, a shower to clean and a lovely, hot bath to relax - but it was something. Right?

The bathroom the man took him into looked more like a wet room in an older person's home. There was a rusted, stained drain in the centre of the floor, everything looking much more like a scene from a horror movie than he hoped. Wasn't that apt? Still, there was a shower. It was limescale encrusted, and he was sure that he could contract some deadly disease from it, but he was in no position to be fussy about it. Situations were situations, even if the walls and floor had to be crawling with all sorts of bacteria. Still, it was better than his shit and piss-marked room.

"Strip," The man prompted, clapping him on the shoulder after finally removing the final zip lock, and Kyoya's sluggish mind stalled for a second as he processed it. He bit his lip, turning back when he heard a chair scrape along the dingy tile, the man sitting down and smiling at him. He always seemed to be smiling when he wasn't angry. It was far too unsettling, but this looked almost as if he were expecting to observe some sort of show. Like this wasn't a violation of privacy and several child protection laws. Not that the man was an upstanding citizen anyway, but this seemed like a different level of fucked up.

Or perhaps he should've expected this? After all, the man was obviously a sadist, and Kyoya knew he was pretty; he'd been told that all his life, after all. He took another shuddered breath, starting to undo the shirt's buttons, one by one. Despite having turned his back on the man, he could feel those cold, crow's feet bordered eyes burn against his back.

"Turn around, pretty boy," He cooed, and Kyoya swallowed hard against the wave of nausea, "I want to see you properly. All of you."

Would he be held down? Would he be restrained and gagged? Would he be raped?

All of the questions that Kyoya had actively avoided hit him at once, and he almost broke down in tears on the spot, but he didn't. He couldn't. Instead, he turned around to face the man, those hungry eyes looking his emaciated frame up and down. One button, then two, then three.

He shucked the shirt off his bony shoulders, and the man roved his gaze over every bone, every inch of pale skin Kyoya wanted to scratch and peel from his body, feeling utterly defiled despite the almost tame touches. This really was like some sort of horror movie, like this wasn’t his life and someone was controlling him like a little marionette.

His thumbs hooked his boxers, and he froze. Here he was, stripping for a sadistic paedophile. It was fight, flight or freeze, and his body went with the only option available. There was no fighting, and no running. This was the only thing he could do for some false sense of self preservation.

“Pretty boy, if you don’t take them off now, I’ll have to do it for you.”

Swallowing down the fear those words made him feel, Kyoya pulled down his boxers, feeling utterly exposed and pathetic. He shivered, mostly due to the cold in the bathroom - or so he told himself. He didn't want to think how easy it would be for the man to grab him like this, so instead he went over to the disgusting shower and turned it on.

He let out a yelp as icy water cascaded over his head and trailed down his back - biting his lip against the chill. It was a shock to the system, and his hands shook as he went to adjust it, the man's laughter as a backing track - like some sort of sick comedy on television. Water spotted his glasses, which he daren’t take off in fear of the man not allowing him to have them back, leaving him blind.

Still, it was a miracle that this hellhole had hot water, steam starting to fill the room as Kyoya let out a contented sigh, forgetting about the man for a moment. He scrubbed the filth from his skin, bending down with his knees to avoid... presenting to the man, and thus making himself an easy target while he picked up the soap. One of those three-in-one body washes that were supposedly shampoo and conditioner also, but beggars couldn't be choosy.

He squeezed a generous amount on to his hand, rubbing it into his hair, nails scraping against his scalp. The hot water felt good, burning his skin pink and removing all the grime. He'd thought about burning all that flesh off before, but this way the man didn't win. He'd be fine. If he was clean, it'd be okay.

He poured more soap into his hand, starting to lather it on his skin, dirty water and off-colour suds slipping down the drain. More soap, more scrubbing, the deeper his nails tracked against his skin. It left red lines across the sickly white of his skin, almost luminescent in the clinical lighting. He couldn't see, but he was sure the man let his eyes rove over those too, along with the curve of his spine leading down to his backside. He tried not to think about it, but as he imagined the man's lustful thoughts of bending him over, violating him against the yellowed wall, his nails dug ever deeper.

"You'll make yourself bleed like that, you know," The man piped up, almost as if he were concerned, "Although, judging by those scars on your thigh, you don't really care about that..."

His hand automatically covered the few straight, silver lines etched into his thigh, his lip between his teeth. Memories from middle school twined with what was happening now; the shame, the revulsion. How messed up he was. Nothing truly changed.

“You haven't cleaned all of yourself yet,” The man pointed out, that overly happy tone mixing with something more impatient, “Go on. Finish.”

Kyoya swallowed down that shame as he squeezed more soap into his hand, reaching to clean between his legs without sobbing. He turned his head slightly, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see the man staring with rapt attention. He wanted to see this, Kyoya touching himself, despite it not being sexual.

He just carried on, trying to retreat inside his own head. He wanted to force some sort of dissociation, not knowing what else he could do. He didn't want to be here, doing this.

“I wonder why you want to run that silly company so much...” The man wondered aloud, and Kyoya tried desperately to tune him out, with no success, “You'd make an excellent porn star.”

He wanted this to just stop.

Nearly missing, the water droplets on his glasses distorting his vision, he shut off the water, quickly and with no warning, the shower stopping abruptly. A couple of droplets still fell, but he didn't notice the light drips against his scalp, wrapped up in those terrifying thoughts. He wasn't sure what was next, the chill starting to seep back into his steam-warmed skin, but at least he was clean. He could deal with things a little better now, hopefully, not driven half mad by the filth.

“Come on, dry off pretty boy,” The man coaxed, holding out a thin, rough towel. Kyoya still took it - nearly snatching it from the man's grip and wrapping it around his torso. Water droplets rolled down his back, making him shiver ever so slightly, but he wanted to be covered. He didn't want the man to watch him when he was so exposed, vulnerable. Not that he was much of a fighter, but with the weight and muscle he'd lost, there was no chance of fighting him off if he chose to do anything.

With the man's hand nudging his shoulder, Kyoya stepped out from beneath the shower head, eyes cast down to the floor. He supposed, in this situation, he was lucky to still have his glasses; even though his sight was impaired for the moment, he wasn't completely blind. Or maybe it was more of a curse, considering the fact he could see the man's grin all too clearly.

“So, pretty boy, do you want some clean clothes?” The man inquired, as if the answer weren't obvious. Kyoya nearly leapt on the offer, but the faux-gentleness put him on edge, as most things about the man did.

“Yes please,” He answered politely, gritting his teeth despite the pain of his broken teeth, the salty taste of blood filling his mouth once more.

“Then you know what you have to do, pretty boy,” The man cooed, brushing back the wet, black strands of his hair. Kyoya repressed the urge to smack his hands away, unsure of the consequences if he did, “Beg me. You were so… beautiful, before.”

Kyoya was too tired to fight anymore. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair, but that was tough shit. He just wanted clean clothes that weren't covered in sweat stains and porridge. He didn't care. Dignity could go hang at this point, if he even had a scrap left. He wanted to be clothed also, the water rapidly growing colder in the cool air, ice settling against his skin and into his bones.

“Please can I have some more clothes?” He tried, dull eyes shifting into something dewier and more innocent - like a little china doll - before he knelt on the ground and bowed low like he'd been forced to before. It was on his terms, he tried to convince himself; there was no boot on his back, digging into the too prominent bones, so it was his own choice.

It wasn't, but denial was the only comfort he'd get without having to humiliate himself in return. It didn't hurt, pretending for a little while, even if the illusion would shatter into sharp shards, slicing his skin and spilling blood on the floor of the room. It would almost complete it, in some messed up way.

“Please, please; I'd like some new clothes, I don't want those dirty ones...” He sniffled, sounding much more genuine than he wanted to be, but it was fine. The man would like that. He'd give him those new clothes.

With a slasher's grin, as if he were the cat who caught the poor, helpless canary, he opened a draw in the old cabinet near the door, removing something that made his stomach do somersaults. There was baby pink and white lace, little diamantes stitched throughout. It was lingerie. Revealing, and it looked like it was meant to be worn skin tight. It even came with matching panties.

“Here we are. So cute, perfect for you, baby boy,” The man breathed, and Kyoya turned away from him ever so slightly. This was twisted. He was seventeen, still a child, and here this man was; tittering to himself that he was going to spoil his _dear baby boy_. He was just... fucking deluded. Like he didn't think Kyoya would run if he were given the chance.

Unbidden, his mind replayed something Kaoru had said, not too long before he was holed up in what was essentially a dungeon, left to be this man's living sex doll.

_“I really want to see you in some of those designs,” His boyfriend hand murmured in his ear, fingers tracing over the glossy pages of the magazine, “You'd look so pretty in lilac.”_

He wasn't so sure now, seeing something so objectively pretty in the man's hands. Had this been Kaoru, he would have slipped it on without hesitation, hips swinging like one of those models, lips painted a matching shade of baby pink that would leave smudges on Kaoru's more tanned skin. However, the scenarios were just so... different. They couldn't even begin to be comparable.

He didn't want to put it on. However, the revolting boxers he'd been wearing for God only knew how long, paired with the porridge stained shirt... He couldn't wear those either. He was divided, unsure which option to choose, each equally hideous. He could either be clean or be somewhat modest.

“Three seconds to choose, pretty boy," The man smiled gleefully, holding out the little camisole and underwear, "If you don't want to wear it, you can wear those dirty things.”

_He didn't know._

“I bet you secretly like it, don't you? Being so dirty.”

_What was the right answer?_

“Some boys even get off on wetting themselves. I bet you like getting humiliated like that, you'd love the attention.”

_He had to be **clean**... _

“I'll... wear the lingerie...” He agreed, clenching his eyes closed as if he could shut out the world. As if his heart would stop hammering against his ribs and sternum. As if he could stop the sting of tears before they fell, “I'll wear it. I just want to be clean. Please.”

The lingerie was pressed into his hands, the man not taking his eyes off him as he stood up and dropped the towel. He tried to get the poor excuse for clothing on as soon as possible, the lace scraping his skin like sandpaper, despite how soft it had felt in his hands.

He pulled up the little panties first, knees shaking, and had the sinking realisation of how _revealing_ they were. There was a small, misplaced feeling of embarrassment when he saw the hair surrounding and poking through the skimpy underwear, acutely aware of his other body hair as well. Part of him wanted to ask if he could shave, but he knew that would only happen if he begged again. It was only a response to this horrible situation, his mind sticking to trivial things to avoid focussing on reality.

Shaving wasn’t worth more of this.

The camisole slipped over his visible ribs all too easily, a little big, but it cinched in at his waist. There was a strip of his skin, sunken between his hipbones, which was visible. But this was better. This was some odd place on the spectrum between alright and not; clean but dirty all the same.

He didn’t even know he was crying until the man nudged him towards the chipped mirror, hands on his shoulder, his waist, his bare skin. Kyoya’s tears still slipped over now sallow cheeks, the man reaching up and taking his glasses, baring those teary eyes for all to see.

“There,” The blurry reflection whispered, “You’re so beautiful, pretty boy.” 


	3. Attempted Rape

Ouran's corridors were always abandoned during classes. Not even the class D students dared to skip lessons, soaking up all of the privilege and benefit their parents' success and station in life earned them. Everyone, while chatty, were motivated. They studied hard, and they got the highest scores they could reach. That was a given in a school with such a reputation as Ouran, but that didn't mean the efforts weren't commendable.

Although, the empty silence of the hallways, a dull echo of his footsteps reverberating, put him on edge. He was hyper-aware, feeling as though he was being watched, even if he knew that was normal when alone; just overactive instincts left over from early evolution. Or perhaps it was the horror movie Kaoru convinced him to watch together, even if he spent a good portion of time with his face pressed into the nape of Kaoru's neck.

The thought made him smile, however. Kaoru nuzzling into him with every jump-scare, asking if he wanted to turn it off only for Kyoya to stubbornly refuse. He just pressed closer and closer, the movie ending up forgotten as Kyoya knelt between his thighs and unzipped his jeans. It was a new experience, Kaoru joked, being sucked off to the sound of screams and blood splatter, and Kyoya pushed him playfully and told him he was gross while they laughed.

At that moment, the soft smile on his face faded as he realised he wasn't alone. His footsteps weren't the only set echoing, and his mind whirred unproductively for a moment, trying to get back on the path of logical thinking. He himself was out of class to go to the bathroom, so it wasn't out of the realms of possibility that the other person was in the same predicament. It wasn’t like he was the only one in the whole academy with a functioning digestive system.

“Hey… Kid…”

He turned, heartbeat settling down from its far too fast pace at the sight of... a man. Just a man. Not some grizzled thug Akito always said was around the corner, not some odd, supernatural being. He didn't know why he'd worked himself up so much, there was nothing that terrifying in the real world.

He was always a bit of a fraidy-cat, his grandmother would often laugh as he definitely didn't pout, his grandfather ruffling his hair. He had something of an overactive imagination, creating monsters in the shadows and dangers in the basement. It was cute until he was twelve, then he had to grow up and leave those delusional fabrications behind. It didn't stop him from thinking about them; it was more of a skill in acting and repression than it was actually not overthinking and scaring himself with his own brain.

"Do you know where the bathroom is?" The man asked, taking Kyoya's lack of answer as permission to continue, "I think I'm a bit lost."

The man wasn't out of place in this setting. He was nicely dressed, presentable, and he was polite. He seemed to even have an air of jovial good-humour about him, chuckling despite being in a potentially embarrassing situation. However, something about the situation set off alarm bells. There was something off, something he couldn't put his finger on, but it was still there.

"There's one downstairs," Kyoya supplied, polite but curt, gesturing to the staircase behind the man, the opposite way to where he'd been walking, not wanting to take any sort of risk, "Down those stairs, just after the first science lab - you can't miss it."

The man thanked him, turning and going the way Kyoya had relayed, the boy's shoulders stiff as he watched him go down the stairs - just in case. He let out a breath, turning on his heel and walking to the bathroom on that floor with a fairly quick pace, the muscles in his arms feeling a little jerky. He swallowed down the small lump in his throat, berating himself for allowing his anxieties to get the better of him for a moment, the door to the men’s room opening and closing with something of a squeak.

 _I hope the janitorial staff oil that soon_ , Kyoya thought, going into the stall and unbuckling his belt, pulling down his trousers.

**_BRIIIIIIING! BRIIIIIIIIIING!_ **

The fire alarm? What a time for a drill… He supposed it wasn’t that important, it could wait, and the teacher knew where he was. It was a little embarrassing, of course, but no one would really care.

The bathroom door opened and closed once more, the sound almost hidden by the incessant alarm. That guy should be outside, but maybe one of the Class D kids thought it was a good opportunity for a smoke? Not dangerous, even if cigarette smoke did make Kyoya cough up a lung. His father had certainly managed to tamper down his little stress-related habit around him after that, but he still found the lingering smell on Yoshio's wool coat disgusting.

A few moments passed with no sound of a lighter or the smell of burning tobacco. Kyoya was feeling rather perturbed once more, adrenaline creeping higher and higher as his watch ticked the seconds away. The fire alarm cut out, but he couldn't even hear footsteps, just someone else's breathing. When he looked down, at that awful, far too big gap under the stall door, it was all he could do not to scream.

The man was on his hands and knees, staring at him under the door with an unsettling smile that chilled Kyoya's entrails and stabbed an aching hole through his chest, the sight searing itself into his mind. It was like his vocal cords had been cut in half, mouth moving futility without making a single understandable sound; just choked spluttering. It was almost like he was in a vacuum, suffocating silently as his life petered out.

It was worse, however, when the man managed to crawl through that gap, like something out of one of Junji Ito's works, and had his full height to his advantage. Kyoya was tall, but not quite that tall, and he was paralysed by the horror of this situation.

His vision almost seemed to fade in and out as his internal monologue screeched about how this couldn't be real, couldn't be happening. His face felt wet, every fibre of his being tense as he felt hands under his armpits, lifting him to his feet. Hands on his shoulders, his chest, pushing down his trousers and underwear further and a voice cutting through his own internalised screaming.

_"Just relax..."_

_"This won't hurt..."_

_"Enjoy it, baby boy..."_

The words were so pungent that they hit the back of his throat, making him gag. He wanted nothing else but the man to go away, those hands off of his body. He couldn't scream, couldn't yell. All he managed was the softest, quietest whisper, stuttered passed his shaking lips.

"P-Please... don't..."

That didn't sound like him. He didn't even recognise it as his own voice for a moment; weak and tearful, scared to death and back. He could feel those hands stroking up and down his spine, some sickly-sweet shushing noises coming from the man, and that just made him all the more frightened. In the face of this, there was no way he could put up a front.

"You look so pretty like this," The man cooed in between the static stuffing Kyoya's ears, "So sweet and small, so submissive and cute... Why bother to hide it?"

The door opened and closed once more, frantic footsteps and urgent knocking interrupting the isolation of the bathroom stall. The man's hand pressed over his mouth, but Kyoya managed a muffled scream, ear-piercing enough for the man's hold to waver slightly.

"Whoever's in there, come out right now!" The person on the other side of the door barked - Yuzuru. Kyoya was still crying, but it was mixed with the relief of knowing he was so close to being saved. He could hear the headmaster trying to break the door down, and the hands were off him in half a second, the man unlocking the door and nearly slamming it straight into Yuzuru's face as he ran off.

"Kyoya?" Yuzuru inquired as he pulled up his underwear and trousers, his vision still blurry and his glasses spotted with teardrops, his cheeks red and blotchy. He was still having trouble breathing between small keens and half-sobs, letting himself fall sideways; his shoulder hitting the stall wall as he slid down to the floor, shaking.

"Kyoya, can I touch you?"

He didn't know.

"Kyoya, are you hurt?"

He didn't know.

"Kyoya, can you try and breathe for me?"

He **didn't know**.

Of course, his father was called, and he was properly informed. Meanwhile, Kyoya just sat on the overstuffed sofa that Yuzuru had led them to, knees pulled up to his chest and expression blank; except for his tear-stained cheeks and the occasional drop that fell from his eyelashes when he blinked.

_You look so pretty like this..._

* * *

 

Kyoya woke with a start, gasping for breath as if he'd just been half drowned, soaked in his own cold sweat. Opening his eyes didn't do any good, all he could see was the darkness of the room.

He let out a sob, shaking from both the memory and the cold he felt seeping under his skin, frost forming in his bone marrow. Why didn't these things stay repressed? Why did someone decide to go after him? Why did he have to be so weak as to break down sobbing over something that didn't actually happen? It was a close call, that was it. He wasn't raped, he hadn't been touched that way, he was fine.

Still, an awful voice whispered in the back of his head, he hadn't been raped **yet**.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry... 
> 
> ... Yeah, no, I'm not.


	4. Amputation

It was getting tiring, laying there in the dark, hoping that he'd eventually open his eyes and this would just be one big, vivid nightmare. That he'd be at home, in his warm, clean bed, in pyjamas that weren't just a little, pink camisole and lacy panties. That he wouldn't stink of sweat and shit and piss. That breakfast would be waiting on the table and Akito would great him with a smack upside the head, to which he'd respond by tripping him up. The usual.

He could hardly say he was disappointed when the cold seeped under his grimy skin, because that would imply that he actually thought he'd be somewhere else. It wasn't an assumption, it was a prayer. In times like these, the only ones you feel you can turn to are the Gods - even if they never answered a single prayer you gave them. It was a delusional facsimile of hope, some pipe dream that you can only pray will help you hold onto sanity a little while longer.

He wanted his father, his brothers, his sister. He wanted the bodyguards and his grandparents. He even wanted his mother. He just wanted someone to hold him and stroke his hair, tell him that this was all a bad dream and he was safe. The monsters in the shadows weren't real, and there was nothing lurking in the basement.

Most of all, he wanted Kaoru. He wanted soft touches and praise whispered against hot-flushed skin. He wanted hand-holding and kisses and cuddles under the stars, surrounded by blankets. He wanted love and tenderness, not the violent perversions of a man that was easily old enough to be his father.

He didn't want cold and dark. He didn't want rice porridge and broken teeth that throbbed with every heartbeat. He didn't want any of the names he called him; every 'pretty boy' and 'baby boy' made him want to tear his eyes out and scream until his throat was bloody.

How long had it even been? God only knew. He honestly wasn't sure if he wanted the answer or not. It was maddening not knowing, but what if the answer was weeks? Months? What if it was only a few days? What would he even prefer? It felt like years, like he was going to die in here. He could remember the outside, but his head messed around with his perception, and it all seemed distant.

His mental health always played with his sense of time, and so this situation was only going to make that worse. At home, he had his phone, calendars, notebooks and organisers - even the fucking sun. Here, he had nothing.

He had to stay focused, couldn't think about that or he'd certainly lose it. If he lost the sanity he was retaining, then it could be game over. PTSD, Stockholm Syndrome, dissociation; it was all so... daunting. He'd read about all of them, and they weren't pretty. He wasn't going to get out of this unscathed, but he could just try not to overthink. People were trying to find him. They would find him. He'd be fine.

The door creaked open, right on cue. It was as if the man had a sickly appropriate sense of timing, but that was okay. He could just be coming in to give him more watery soup or disgusting porridge.

"Hello, baby boy," The man greeted, the words feeling like coarse sandpaper against Kyoya's skin, "How are we?"

He didn't answer. He was too tired, too drained, and honestly... He didn't even know how to respond to that. Instead, he just tilted his head ever so slightly, trying not to aggravate his stiff, sore neck, and groaned when the light hit his eyes painfully. He still hadn't been given his glasses back, everything too blurry; the squinting worsened his headache.

"Well, don't worry! I thought we could do something to pretty you up even more today," The man chirped, and every red flag was instantly raised. That couldn’t mean anything good, not from someone this sickly sadistic.

 The sound of duct tape being peeled off the roll made him freeze, a stone in his gut, and realise he was completely right.

"You see, you're lovely as you are, baby boy; but you could be more... suited to certain tastes," The man explained, the thick tape adhering to Kyoya's skin, wrapping around his wrists before he could will himself to move, binding his arms behind his back. He was weak, too afraid to move a single muscle, and he could only scream at himself to lash out. He needed to kick, punch, anything to get the man away from him so he could run out of the door and get to somewhere safe. But he couldn't.

"Please..." He croaked, voice cracking and painful from both disuse and being defiled by force feeding, "Why... Why me? Please don't. Please don't."

The man shushed his gently, those fingers raking through his hair once more, setting his scalp on fire. "Now, now; you don't expect me to list all the reasons why I love my little baby boy, do you? We'd be here far too long, and we need to pretty you up," The man cooed, and Kyoya nearly threw up right then and there, "Still, teenage boys are insecure, even ones as perfect as you."

Kyoya flinched hard when he felt lips press into his hair, teasingly soft kisses.

"You're beautiful."

A kiss to his forehead, and a whimper he didn't remember making.

"You're charming."

A kiss to his cheek, and hands digging into gaunt flesh, forcing his head to stay where it was when he tried to turn away.

"You're so cute when you cry..."

A kiss to his lips, and a feeling of violation that he knew he couldn't wash off. He knew it wasn’t as bad as the other things, but at the same time… It felt different. He hadn’t raped him in the bathroom stall, hadn’t touched him, but even if he had… Rape was violent. Rape was power, a way to hurt, not about intimacy. Kisses were love. He’d always thought of them that way, call him a romantic. It was twisted, perverted affection and he hated it. He wanted to spit all the vile words he’d thought at the man, wanted to bite, wanted to kick… But he couldn’t.

Because he was weak.

Cold metal wrapped around one of his legs, tight and almost painful. A chain. He was still frozen, especially with how the man had decided to tie him down, legs spread apart. His mind flicked back to the bathroom, to that disturbing smile under the door, to that hideous voice telling him to relax. Of course, his mind whispered about all the things the man could be thinking, and he just wanted them to be quiet. He didn’t want to hear it, to think it. He wanted to be home, in the warm.

“Tell me, pretty boy, do you know what Acrotomophilia is?” The man asked, and Kyoya couldn’t even think of the answer, let alone speak, “To put it simply… It’s finding beauty in the broken. The incomplete.”

Kyoya really didn't like the sound of that. If the man were truly interested in broken parts, then there'd be no need to "pretty him up"; he was made of them. This treatment, being left in the dark... It certainly hadn't fixed him, psychologically and emotionally. There was only one thing left that it could mean...

 _Physically_ broken.

He lifted his head, trying to see where the man was going as he heard the loud echoes of the shoes tapping against the floor. His blood ran cold at what he saw in the man's hands, more so than ever before. He tried to move back, the tight chains cutting into his thin, dry flesh and causing him to whimper like some sort of animal. He couldn't move back, or really at all. There was no escape.

"No! No, don't! I'll do anything you want! Please don't!" He begged, over and over again. He was shaking, absolutely terrified, "Y-you want me, don't you? I'll let you do anything. You can... You can have sex with me... I don't care, just don't hurt me..."

His cries, rather surprisingly, fell on deaf ears. While Kyoya wasn't sure if sleeping with his captor was a good - or safe - idea, but it was better than whatever he was planning to do with that axe.

"It'll hurt, baby boy. I'm sorry for that, but I'll take good care of you, my little broken doll," The man cooed softly, smiling at the tears falling over Kyoya's cheekbones, thin frame shaking like a little fawn, "Now, hold still."

The axe came down, and Kyoya could only scream. It burned, it stung. There was a deep gash just below his knee, pain settled into the bone, and he wasn't even ashamed of the tears anymore. It hurt. It hurt _so much_. He was choking on it, struggling to breathe. Not only was the physical sensation so intense, but the thought of _he’s cutting my leg off_ was all too… overwhelming.

Again, the axe came down, blood splattering across the floor as his stomach lurched. The axe was blunt, and the force at which the man swung it was twisting his guts and forcing half-digested, mushy clumps of rice to spill from his lips and onto the filthy floor. His hands clenched into fists, sobs freely echoing around the small room, unrestrained; why bother to hide them?

The axe continued to cut its way through his leg, the pain white hot and making him scream out. He couldn't cope. He couldn't keep doing this. His flesh, his muscle, his bone - all severed and broken, making him sick. Vomit caked some of his hair from him flinching into the bile-soaked puddle, but he barely even registered it. He could hardly smell anything after being locked in that damn room.

The silence that filled the air, the sickening give as something was removed from him, made him want to throw up once more. The man tossed his severed leg aside so easily, as it were just a part that cracked off a little doll, leaning over him to inspect the ragged, bloody stump.

"There, was that so bad?" The man inquired, sickeningly sweet, and softly murmured how _adorably useless_ he looked. How dependant, how helpless, he was with his vomit-soaked hair and blotchy, tear-sticky cheeks, "You can have a break for a few days, then the other leg."

Part of Kyoya burned with rage, wanted to scream about how he'd already taken one of his legs; wasn't he fucking satisfied? But the majority of him just wanted to curl into a ball and sob his heart out, nerves frayed and scared out of his mind.

"We'll get you all bandaged up, then you can sleep, baby boy," The man assured, hand on his thigh, above his stump, "My lovely little doll."

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to take some prompts from my Bad Things Happen Bingo card, so feel free to request something if you want to see it: https://ko-fanatic.tumblr.com/post/177486419968/so-im-participating-in-bad-things-happen-bingo
> 
> My Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/J3J0FT23


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